


Just Desserts

by horselizard



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Dom/sub, Humiliation, Humor, M/M, Messy, Missing Scene, Power Dynamics, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horselizard/pseuds/horselizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anyone in the fandom who's into Wet-and-Messy? No? Oh well, come on in anyway. I hope you'll find something to entertain you.</p>
<p>Set just after "Balance of Power".</p>
<p>Additional: I am so, so sorry about the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Desserts

Lister lay on his bunk, idly flicking through a magazine. It had been about half an hour since he’d whooped his triumph at his exam results and gone skipping back to his quarters. He’d expected Rimmer to follow, spluttering protests and disbelief, but instead, he’d disappeared. Maybe he’d gone down to the diesel decks to sulk, he thought with a smirk. In the meantime, he was enjoying the unexpected peace and quiet. He was in no rush.

Unlike Rimmer, Lister was a man of honour. He had never intended any dirty tricks or abuses of power; he had just wanted to win access to Kochanski’s disk fair and square. But some kind of slow-burning outrage had been set off within him by Rimmer’s sleazy mistreatment of Kochanski’s physical data file. He’d pushed it out of his head at the time, concentrating on finishing the exam to the best of his abilities, but afterwards, the images kept returning unbidden: Rimmer ogling down Kochanski’s shirt, Rimmer fondling what was technically Kochanski’s breast...

The man was a slimeball. And he’d known that already, of course; Rimmer had quite openly _admitted_ it in that bizarre excuse for a eulogy he’d given himself. “Elbow-titting”? It took a special kind of bastard to stoop _that_ low. But to see the proof of it up close, the way he so casually disrespected another woman’s body, _Kochanski’s_ body... and as the git had hovered over his shoulder, pestering him for his results, something inside him had snapped. He was a man of honour. But Rimmer didn’t deserve that honour. As a matter of fact, he knew exactly what Rimmer deserved.

He heard a small throat-clearing noise, and glanced up from his magazine to see that the git in question had appeared in the doorway.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Mister Lister, sir,” he said in a clipped voice, favouring Lister with one of his best Full-Rimmers, and staring stiffly ahead.

Lister took his time dropping down from the bunk, gazing in wonder at his bunkmate standing smartly to attention. So Rimmer had actually come round to the power shift! He hadn’t really believed it would happen so soon, or - by all appearances - so completely...

“That’s very kind of you to say, Second Technician Rimmer,” Lister said, enjoying the way the hologram flinched slightly at the mention of his rank. “Now, if you’re not too busy, there’s a little matter I was hoping you could help me with.”

“I’d be only too happy to assist, Mister Lister, sir,” Rimmer replied smoothly. Apparently, he was slipping back into his toadying routine as though it were second nature. Just like riding a bike, Lister thought.

“Well, y’see,” Lister began, slowly pacing around Rimmer, who remained strictly eyes-front, “I was curious about what you said earlier. That you obey orders blindly and without question, no matter who’s giving them...”

Rimmer sniffed. “Of course, sir. Unquestioning obedience is vital in case of a crisis situation, as I’m sure you’re aware, sir.”

Lister marvelled at Rimmer’s refusal to rise to the bait. The smegger might make a show of behaving all correct and proper around his superiors, but it was time to see if he really would put his money where his mouth was. “Holly?”

“Yes, Dave?”

“Would you be so good as to simulate a hologrammatic jug of custard, please?”

“With pleasure, Dave,” replied the computer with a sly smile, keen to see where this was going. A plastic jug containing about a pint of thick yellow liquid appeared on the bunkroom table. Rimmer’s eyes flicked to it briefly, but otherwise, he remained flawlessly to attention.

“Now then, Rimmer,” Lister drawled, resuming his leisurely pacing and coming to rest a short distance from Rimmer, squarely facing him. “As your superior, I order you to pick up that jug of custard, and pour it over your head.”

Rimmer snapped his head down to glare directly at Lister, his expression one of undisguised outrage. Lister tried not to smirk too broadly, delighted to have destroyed Rimmer’s façade of unruffled correctness. He held Rimmer’s gaze, watching with glee as he began to quiver with barely-controlled apoplexy, his tightly-shut mouth ballooning intermittently with the desperately-tamped-down beginnings of a splutter of incoherent fury. Lister could tell there was an almighty battle being waged in what passed for the hologram’s brain.

Suddenly, Rimmer snapped back to attention, eyes front again, having somehow managed to swallow down his entirely justified anger at Lister’s outrageous command. “Sir, yes sir,” he forced out tersely, dashing off a quick Half-Rimmer to compensate for his momentary lapse.

Lister couldn’t believe it - surely not even Rimmer would be that stupid? - but his grin broadened in anticipation of the show he was about to be treated to. What he was making his bunkmate do was horrendously cruel and humiliating, he knew, but there was no doubt in his mind that the smeghead deserved it. _This one’s for you, Lovell,_ he thought wryly.

Hesitantly, gathering his courage, Rimmer reached out and picked up the jug, raising it high above his curly head. This was clearly a test of some kind - a test of bravery, perhaps? - and he was determined to pass it. After all, he would never prove to his superior that he was promotion material unless he showed due respect for the chain of command. His expression wavered a little in nervous anticipation of what he was about to inflict on himself, but other than that, he remained standing proud, upright, a picture of quiet dignity. 

He slowly tilted the jug, uncertain how close the custard was to creeping over the lip of the spout, then winced as the first globule of cold, slimy liquid landed in his hair and started to trickle down in several directions over his head. It was deeply unpleasant, and he could feel Lister’s mocking gaze boring into him, but he resolutely kept on tipping the jug forwards at the same steady pace, determined to complete the task he had been set, no matter what. If there was one thing Arnold J. Rimmer was good at (and, he sometimes thought in fits of gloom, there probably _was_ only one thing he was good at), it was following orders. 

A slow-moving tide of yellow was beginning to slither unevenly down his face, dripping into his eyes, cooling his flushed cheeks, pooling in the crossbar of his H. Still he kept on pouring the stuff over himself, no longer able to maintain a neutral expression, but instead screwing up his features in disgust, blinking furiously to get the heavy liquid out of his eyes. The custard was thick enough that it got slowed down by his forest of wiry curls on first landing, but every time enough of it had collected under the spout of the jug, it would find sufficient momentum to break free, sending another wave of unpleasantness flowing down over his head.

He was fairly covered in the stuff by now, rivulets of it making their way down the back of his neck, dripping from his nose and chin onto his pristine hologrammatic shirt and tie, and still it kept coming. Surely the jug was nearly empty by now? The horrifying thought struck him that perhaps Holly was surreptitiously refilling it - he wouldn’t put it past him - and _that_ horrifying thought sparked another, even more horrifying thought, reminding him as it did that the smug computerised bastard was still on the bunkroom monitor, watching every second of his ordeal. And so, of course, was Lister. For a few moments, he had been so focused on getting through this revolting endurance test that he had almost forgotten the outside world. But now, he was suddenly all too aware not only that the outside world existed, but that it was staring at him, and judging him to look spectacularly ridiculous.

He suddenly felt utterly humiliated. What was he _doing?_ How pathetic and vulnerable he had made himself! He was standing in front of Lister - _Lister_ , who, superior rank or not, was still a dishcloth-brained slob - with his face and hair thoroughly plastered with cold custard. He had got himself into a tremendous, superlative, grade-A mess... and all because Lister - _Lister!_ \- had told him to. What a fool he must look. What a fool he must _be_ , to take that kind of degradation in the name of rank and office. Did he really submit so easily? Was he really such a glutton for punishment?

As the last few drops fell from the jug onto his head, he glimpsed Lister’s wicked grin through custard-coated eyelashes, and realised with horrible clarity that he did, and he was.

Their eyes locked, and Rimmer stood frozen for a few seconds, his expression curiously blank. Slowly, trance-like, he lowered his arm, and blindly attempted to deposit the jug back on the table, whence Holly discreetly disposed of it. Lister noted curiously that the hologram appeared to be trembling slightly, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Rimmer, you never cease to surprise me,” Lister exclaimed at length, and he meant it. “I have to say, that was impressive.”

Rimmer appeared to interpret this as permission to stand at ease, and he inclined his head curtly, perhaps as an embarrassed acknowledgement of his superior’s praise. The movement caused a small quantity of custard to drip from his H onto the bridge of his nose, and then trickle down towards the corner of his eye. Lister watched in amusement as Rimmer flinched, then lifted his hands up to wipe the mess out of his eyes, dragging his long, slender fingers onwards down his cheeks, cutting a swathe through the thick coating of yellow slime and rendering a fierce blush faintly visible. He blinked, and spluttered, and forked a hand through the custard-slathered mess of his hair. Then he stared in dismay at his yellow-dripping fingers, at a loss as to where he could safely put them, before he noticed that his uniform was already liberally streaked with custard, and dropped his hands limply to his sides, defeated.

Lister was enjoying this far too much. He had, it seemed, succeeded in so comprehensively shredding Rimmer’s dignity that the hologram wasn’t even _trying_ to cover up his mortification with mulish pomposity or indignant ranting or transparent claims that it had all been a trick, as he usually would. Instead, he appeared to have completely given up, openly inviting more ridicule with his gloomy, half-hearted attempts at cleaning himself up, his expression a picture of discomfiture. And apparently, the whole experience had rendered him quite speechless, which was an unexpected bonus.

He strode unhurriedly in another semicircle around Rimmer, who was now hanging his head, following Lister’s progress with an air of dejected resignation. “Now, Second Technician, there’s just one more thing I have to say to you.”

He stopped by the door, and Rimmer looked up at him with that same hangdog expression, seemingly bracing himself for the worst. He tried not to chuckle as he thought that no _way_ would Rimmer’s idea of ‘worst’ be as bad as _this_...

“I was lying. I didn’t pass the Chef’s Exam. I failed.”

He paused for as long as he dared, watching as Rimmer’s face fell in magnificent slow motion, a guffaw threatening to burst from behind the wild smirk of his tightly-pressed lips. Then he turned and sauntered out of the room, breaking into a clumsy, tiptoeing run as soon as he was out of sight, one hand clamped over his mouth, hurrying as quickly and as silently as he could to some spot where he could safely lock himself away and laugh until he puked.

Rimmer stared after him, his mouth hanging open stupidly. He had been had. Well and truly had. Stitched up like a smegging kipper. Just when he had thought this whole affair couldn’t get any more humiliating! And he had been so ready, so ready and willing and _eager_ , to obey Lister’s each and every command...

He looked down at himself. At least, he was reasonably certain, Lister hadn’t seen _that_. Experience had taught him that it was wise, when wearing tight trousers, to pair them with tight boxers.

“Holly?” he said to the computer, who was trying and failing to look nonchalant rather than uncontrollably amused. “As senior technician on board this ship...” he rolled the words extravagantly round his mouth, but they felt oddly hollow... “I order you to leave me the smeg alone. Lock the doors. Turn off the comms. Max privacy, until I tell you otherwise.”

“Righto, Arnold. You sure you wouldn’t like me to clean up that mess you’re in first?”

Rimmer looked from his gooey hands to his painfully tight trousers. “I’ll sort myself out, thank you, Holly,” he muttered.

“Okay, Arnold,” Holly replied, with only the faintest hint of surprised disapproval, and disappeared from the monitor.

The door slid closed, and Rimmer was left alone with his burning sense of shame.


End file.
